Author: sheona

There is an interesting article in the French press about a Muslim family in Nîmes who have just lodged a complaint.

http://www.msn.com/fr-fr/actualite/other/jihad-lappel-de-karima-pour-faire-revenir-sa-soeur-hanane-16-ans-partie-en-syrie/ar-BBjAv9y

The sixteen year old daughter Hanane stole her older sister’s ID and went off to Syria. So the parents have laid charges of kidnapping, abuse of a minor and incitement to suicide. What is unclear is against whom these charges are levelled. Don’t you need to name someone you feel is guilty? In most of such cases it is of course the French state that is held responsible for not doing something or other.

Hanane has managed to contact her older sister from Raqqah and is apparently not enjoying islamist life there and wants to return to France. But it appears that this is not so easy to do, not because of the big bad wolves (sorry OZ) of French policemen waiting at the airport but because of the thugs of the religion of peace keeping tabs on her movements.

I hope the parents do find someone against whom they can bring charges. It will be interesting to follow this case.

Dear Bearsy,

I realise that you Aussies want your revenge on the UK for sending all those convicts there. But last night on the leaders’ non-debate, I discovered your follow-up to Patsy Hewitt.  As soon as I heard the voice of Natalie Bennet, I rushed into the kitchen to wash dishes.  Please stop sending these women to us. Haven’t we suffered enough? And most of the convicts made good, but the same can’t be said for Hewitt or Greer or Bennet.

Yours tearfully,

Sheona.

Halfway through planning this year’s holiday, I realised I hadn’t yet put up a blog about last year’s, which caused enough ructions. These went from my cousin’s son-in-law’s “They’re going where? Are they mad?” to daughter’s conviction that Putin’s thugs would be trying to shoot us out of the sky.

On arrival we were greeted by this lady:

Though she has a sword in her right hand to deal with enemies, she holds a cup of wine in her left to welcome friends – the Mother of Georgia. Continue reading “What I did on my holiday”

To celebrate the 80th anniversary of the game of Monopoly, the manufacturers are apparently putting some real euros in the cash pile in a few boxes of the game.

http://www.nicematin.com/derniere-minute/pour-ses-80-ans-le-monopoly-met-des-vrais-euros-dans-ses-boites.2088032.html

The question in my mind is, given the current state of the single currency, whether there will be much difference between it and the real Monopoly money.

Am I the only one to feel that these “heroes/heroines” who go off to West Africa to help Ebola victims should not be permitted to waltz back into the UK with a warm, virtuous glow in their hearts and the Ebola virus somewhere about their person?

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/scotland/11317035/Ebola-in-UK-Second-patient-tested-in-Scotland.html

Now all the other passengers who were on the same flights as the first victim are put through the stress of worrying whether they may have been infected, through no fault of their own.  And the already stretched resources of the NHS have to be mobilised to care for the infected person.

The UK needs to set up a quarantine centre for such returning heroes, where they must be kept until they can be declared free of infection.  No parent sends a child to school with chickenpox or measles, so why should someone possibly infected with the Ebola virus immediately come back into society? As the parents of the measles-stricken child have to keep that child at home at their own expense, so should those who have exposed themselves to the possibility of Ebola infection pay for their quarantine. Six months in kennels might be a bit much; a few weeks should suffice for those who dash off to help their fellow men in Africa with a singular disregard for the welfare of their fellow citizens in the UK.

I have been wondering for some time why this silly woman had her bottom enlarged to such a ludicrous extent.  Now I know.

http://www.huffingtonpost.fr/2014/11/12/photos-kim-kardashian-fesses-jean-paul-goude-paper-magazine_n_6143576.html?utm_hp_ref=france

Most people would just go out and buy a new occasional table.

Reading about Tracy Emin’s artwork My Bed and the fact that it is coming up for sale at Christie’s next week, when she hopes it will be bought by a museum, made me realise that we could all produce our own My Bed without any vast outlay.

Some weeks ago I spoke a few sharp words to older granddaughter, age four and a half.  She disappeared from view and I later found her curled up under our duvet.  The bed looked as if a hurricane had struck it, but all the items on my bedside table were as they had been.

So the recipe is simple.  Make bed neatly as usual; introduce small child into the home (how you acquire one is up to you);  utter a sharp reprimand and stand back.  Your masterpiece can then be personalised to your taste with your own belongings such as bedroom slippers, handcream, medication, bedside reading and so on, and could possibly be worth around £1 million. You may not wish to have it on public display, but will have the warm glow of having created a masterpiece.

I’ve finally done it!  I’ve been chucked out of a pub.  Why, you will wonder.  Was I dancing on tables or singing raucous Scottish songs in a corner?  No, nothing so exciting.  After waiting over 45 minutes for our lunch order, which had been lost somehow,  I was confident that the food would arrive not properly prepared.  And I was right.  Husband’s fish was warm not hot, my mushrooms were almost raw and the chips – large slabs of pale, unappetising potato.  We complained to the bar maid, who said she would pass it on to the landlady.

Not having a cruel nature, I will refrain from any physical description of this landlady who turned up at our table. Her explanation that there was only one chef in the kitchen – not our problem – and that when all the orders came at once, this caused difficulty, differed from her staff’s. The pub was not busy. But it was when husband spoke disparagingly of the chips, which we had not eaten, that she really flipped. Grabbing our unfinished drinks, she ordered us out of “her” pub, describing husband as a very rude young man.  I think she must have been suffering from landlord’s disease because husband will reach his three score years and ten in September, albeit unreconstructed three score and ten as he himself says quite proudly.

Was I right to follow her back into the pub demanding a refund for our confiscated drinks? It didn’t seem to soothe her any and we were once again ordered to leave.  Ah well, life’s rich tapestry …

 

I was convinced that I heard a cuckoo a day or so ago and today the bird itself flew down into the garden. I’d never seen one in the feather before.  But we’re still in Switzerland, so I suppose I can’t write to the Times about this.

By the time I’d yelled for a camera, one of the cats had emerged from the house and the cuckoo decided it didn’t want to linger in such company. Still, I shall dedicate this sighting to all Sassenach Charioteers to wish you a happy St George’s Day.

According to the BBC, this “third gender” thing is spreading and has now affected India.

http://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-india-27031180

India is now instructed to provide “key amenities” for these confused people, but I’m not sure that India can provide such amenities for the majority of its population anyway.

Instead of the suggested “Bruila”, I’m tempted to use the designation “whatever”.